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greeting with Rock (Alex couldn’t believe it—did his wife just fist bump Chris Rock?).
    â€œI want to thank the Academy and all the nominees—you guys are amazing, but sorry fellas!” she said. “This one’s for the ladies!”
    A great whoop went up from the crowd. Figgy held up the statue. She wasn’t blinking or breathing hard or betraying any writerly anxiety at all. She beamed. Her skin looked luminous, dewy. It was as if she’d been buffed with the fame loofah.
    â€œOh gosh—I want to thank my killer agent Jess and my manager Jerry—you guys are animals ,” Figgy said. “And to Kate and all our fabulous actors. And to Neil at the network and Wanda at the studio and everyone on my crew and my whole darling family, you guys are amazing!”
    Alex let out a sound: half-laugh, half-sob. He was suddenly aware of his fists, clenched tight and balled at his chest. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the blinking red light on the camera. He tried and failed to relax his hands. Breathe, he thought. Breathe again.
    Figgy paused, nodded once, and seemed to reflect for a moment. “Most of all,” she swallowed. “I want to thank… the Academy, for finally recognizing the oppressed minority of Jewish girls from Sherman Oaks. Rise up, my sisters!”
    A huge round of applause sounded from the crowd, and Figgy raised the trophy in triumph. Alex clapped along as she was led away from the mic and into a darkened crowd off stage.
    â€¢ • •
    Figgy didn’t come back after the next commercial break, or the one after that, leaving Alex to sit and stew, his fingertips tingling, a flutter in his throat, and a disbelieving grin locked on his face.Her seat was soon snatched up by an older woman in a saggy, peach-colored gown. Alex gave her a confused greeting.
    â€œSeat filler,” she said, snapping her gum. He shook his head, not understanding. “We come out for the crowd shots. So it’s always a full house? Don’t worry—I’ll skedaddle as soon as—”
    â€œOh, it’s fine,” Alex said, embarrassed that he needed the explanation.
    â€œThat was your wife, wasn’t it?” she asked. “The Tricks lady?”
    He nodded. “Right—Miss Tricks . Do you know if I can go backstage? For the press conference?”
    â€œI wouldn’t try that,” she said, her breath sugary and hot. “You need a pass to get back there. Anyway, there’s only enough seat fillers to cover the winners. You sit tight—she’ll be back.”
    Then the stage lights brightened and the music swelled. Alex clapped and tried to feign interest in the other awards. Where was Figgy? In the moment after she won, he’d gone blank. It was as if he’d been concussed by the shock of it. Had he kissed her before she jumped up? One second Rock was ripping open the envelope… the next Figgy was up on stage, the speech spilling out, the joke, the thanks, all those names, the agent and manager and star….
    Of course, he thought: She’d had her remarks prepared all along . He thought back to the limo and the way she’d stretched, that fancy yoga flex—it was a tell! Beneath all that never-gonna-happen bluster, she’d somehow known her name was in that envelope. Why shouldn’t it be her? She was like this about much of her life—mysteriously certain. Whereas Alex was constantly plotting contingencies, drifting from one thing to another and clinging to vague notions of realistic expectations, Figgy plowed forward with the force of someone who absolutely deserved what it was they were as sure as hell about to get. To Alex, she seemed magic this way—“The force is strong in this one,” he’d say, as she got the gig or the parking spot or the phone call she’d been counting onall along.
    Not that she ever admitted such certainty out loud. That was part of her